Last Rites and Lemon Meringue
by Creature of Habit
Summary: The lesson here? Never forget the green bean casserole.


Got this tragically funny flash of inspiration at the last second. I am not one to do _holiday _pieces – but this was just too damn rich to pass up. Enjoy.

**Disclaimer: Nope. I still don't own anything except insanity. **

**Last Rites and Lemon Meringue  
**By: Creature of Habit

The scene was as traditional as any Norman Rockwell painting. An elegantly dressed table. Tastefully chosen, careful not to gild the lily, holiday decor. The finest imported China. The sight and scent of the most delectable dishes. A happy family gathered close together. The very image could easily bring a tear to even the driest eye in the house.

"Absolutely _not_." The resolute tone was embellished by a firm shake of the head.

"Pretty please with _sugar _on top?" More than a dash of mocking.

"No, no... a thousand times, _no_!" The thick sole of his boot striking the polished hardwood of the dining room floor upon which he stood, glaring down at his seated tormentor.

"I'm telling you, _Malik_..."

"Bakura, you are _not _carving the turkey!" Malik spit, shoulders squaring to signal the termination of this particular argument.

Make that _dysfunctional _family.

Malik had no clue what had ever possessed him to bring them all together under one roof. His roof. But, whatever the hell it was, it had better hope he never found it. Because he would kill it. Torture it mercilessly, then kill it. Kill it. Kill it! There. Better.

The blonde hikari took a deep breath. "Okay," he grinned. "Who will do us the honor of saying grace?"

"You'll be saying your _Last Rites _if you don't let us eat in the next two seconds." Bakura snapped.

Malik narrowed his eyes. "It's _my _house, Bakura, and if I want grace said in _my _house, then grace will damn well be said in _my _house!" Malik bit back. The man seated nearest to him cleared his throat. "_Our _house." Malik sheepishly corrected, earning a satisfied smirk from Marik.

"First, you won't let me carve the turkey..." Bakura pointed a sharp finger at the blonde. He never had been one to give up.

"Let you near a knife? With Yami within _stabbing _distance?" In truth, it was because he just had new carpeting installed in the living room.

"Is it my fault that Yami just _happens _to have a bad habit of walking in front of my knives?" Good old Bakura logic.

"It is when you _aim _your knives _at him_!" Piss on Bakura's chips Malik logic. At least, that was what Bakura called it.

"Malik, would you quit shitting around with Bakura and just carve the _damn bird_!" Marik shouted, making the entire room, minus Bakura, as nothing much ever startled him, nearly jump out of their skins. Mental note: shout more often.

Malik paused. "_Fine_." A gasp. "Oh no... I forgot the casserole!"

"I'll get it." Yami exited the room a little quicker than he usually would, doubtless because of the fixated glare he had been receiving from Bakura ever since he sat down.

"Ryou, could you please hand me that–" Malik gestured to the large, fork like instrument. "Bakura, Ra-damn it, for the hundredth time, keep your fingers _out of the pies_!" He slapped at the thief's hand, which was currently in the lemon meringue. "Thank you, Ryou." Malik smiled, accepting from the snow-haired hikari what he had requested.

"You're welcome." Ryou smiled politely.

"_You're welcome_." Bakura ignored the stern look from Ryou, sneering as he licked the remaining meringue from his finger.

"Where would you like me to put it?" Yami, green bean casserole in hand, asked Malik from across the table.

What transpired next would saddle Malik with a phobia that would eventually lead to a very substantial psychiatrist bill.

As that large, fork like utensil connected with the turkey, Malik, being distracted by the question from Yami, the turkey, which was, for some reason, super slippery, transformed, instantly, from dinner into airborne projectile. The flying poultry missile flew off the platter, shot across the table, and collided with none other than, you guessed it, Yami. The Pharaoh, casserole still in his hand, was knocked clean off his feet, down the long hall, before crashing with a crack against the French double doors.

A long, disbelieving, terrified silence.

"Yami!" Yugi finally squealed, scrambling, Ryou at his heels, down the hall.

"All this time..." Marik drawled, shaking a thoughtful finger. "Millenniums spent plotting the _perfect _evil scheme... the assassination that would _succeed_..." He cocked his head to the side, peering up at Malik in amazement. "And all I ever had to do was put _you _behind a Christmas _turkey_."

Malik, mouth agape, tears puddling in his too wide, by now, lavender eyes, was clearly in a state of shock.

"Told you to let _me _carve it." Bakura smirked, pulling the whole lemon meringue pie onto his plate and digging in.

**FIN**

Poor Malik. Poor Yami. Personally, my favorite part of this is what Marik says at the end. All he ever had to do to get rid of Yami was put Malik behind a Christmas turkey. Heh. Yami, by the way, is not dead. Just very, very stunned and a tad bit bruised.

Review me, if you please!


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